Page 32 of Court of Embers (Dragonesse #2)

In Koressis, the center of the eyrie was a massive open cavity, from the base to the tip of the tower.

It was a marvel, mirrors reflecting the sun above in its purest form to the lowest, darkest level.

Some said that walking into the center of Koressis was like being dazzled by the sun itself, even surrounded by thick walls.

Now the Atrium was black and still. The blood led here, smeared all over the floor inlaid with gold. It reflected my torchlight, gleaming gold and scarlet.

Many more dead lay in here. Bloodless, dragonblood, both had been treated like so much offal; they were piled in the middle, a mountain of loose limbs and slack faces.

I looked past the pile at the other side of the Atrium, seeing more bodies haphazardly dropped and leaning against the walls. Misty eyes, dead eyes; but for one quick pair that blinked at me.

I froze, muscles tensing, staring into those dark eyes.

Living eyes. Vibrantly orange scales covered the Historian’s cheeks, smeared with blood.

He slumped against the wall, his brown sackcloth habit soaked in blood, stock-still and staring at us with a terrible and hopeful desperation.

The arm of a dead Bloodless was slung over his lap, but the Historian remained where he was, hardly breathing.

A survivor. We need him.

Sera, do not fucking move . Rhylan remained crouched in the door, blocking most of the path. I’d have to squeeze through a tight gap to make it to the Historian.

But Rhylan’s mental voice held me in place. My arm ached from holding the torch aloft, but I didn’t dare disobey. I felt what was in his mind.

He’s above us . There was the faintest tremor in Rhylan’s voice.

I realized then that it had been a few minutes since we’d heard the screaming. Silence had fallen throughout Koressis.

I allowed my gaze to slowly slide upwards. The Atrium was visible from any floor of the tower; large arches had been carved into the inner walls of each floor, allowing one to look over the balustrade into the depths or heights of the tower.

Eight floors up, Isandoral clung to one of the arched openings, his head craned downwards and cocked towards us.

He did not appear as I remembered. He had been a white dragon, nearly translucent. I remembered seeing the reddish-violet veins in his throat under his scales, in his scarlet eyes.

Now a multitude of eyes blinked at us. From his face, but also from his arms, shoulders, his sides…eyes in every hue, some weeping, some with the pupils blown wide. None were closed.

All were fixed on us.

He stole their eyes , I said numbly.

Across the Atrium, the Historian stared desperately, tears cutting through the blood drying on his cheeks.

Rhylan, we must—

I’ll go for Isandoral . He sounded calm. Too calm. Wild fear rose in me. You take the Historian and run. Do not stop for me or anyone else.

I won’t leave you in here.

Beautiful, stubborn draga. If I don’t come out, call the Ascendants. Bury the doors forever.

I was frozen. Ice inside, freezing through my veins.

But we needed the Historian, if not for our own questions, then to understand what in the Nine Hells had happened here.

And if any other Ascendant was vulnerable to this madness.

I’m ready . I felt miles distant from my body. Legs tensed and aching, ready to dash for the Historian like my life depended on it, because it did.

Isandoral opened his mouth, and black slime dripped from the back of his throat. He screamed, the sound ripping through my eardrums, sending me staggering back.

There were words in that scream, hidden under the torment. I couldn’t understand them; I thought my eyes and ears were bleeding.

Now! Rhylan snarled, and he burst into the Atrium, launching upwards and expelling a lungful of obsidian flames.

I had the quickest glimpse of eyes bursting, fluids coursing over Isandoral’s translucent scales, and then I forced my terrified body to move.

I leaped over bodies, dashing across the Atrium, keeping my eyes on the prize. Ignoring the screams overhead, the primitive, furious darkness consuming Rhylan’s mind.

It took everything in me to skid through the sea of blood, nearly crashing into the Historian.

“Come on!” I snarled, grabbing his arm and hauling him upright. I felt my claws puncture flesh and didn’t give a damn as long as he moved.

He let out a heaving sob, stumbling after me. I pulled him bodily, kicking severed limbs aside and barreling towards the hall, following the blood once more.

I have him!

The Historian leaned on me heavily, shaking so hard it was difficult to keep him upright. “Move faster or you stay behind.”

He sobbed again, but he obeyed. Tears streamed down his face, and he flinched as Rhylan roared behind us, answering Isandoral’s agonized shrieks.

He was too slow for me to run, but I managed to drag him at a jog, forcing him past the strange mandala and eyeless heads, shoving him around corners and urging him to move faster, faster .

Every few steps I checked behind me. Rhylan’s mind was a starless night; there was nothing to read but revulsion, the need to wipe the thing that Isandoral had become from existence.

Rhylan!

He didn’t answer.

We left squelching footsteps on the scattered papers. We were so close to the door, to freedom…and we’d need to trap Isandoral inside.

The Historian looked down at his bloodied footsteps and brayed out tears, his feet tangling together.

“For the love of the gods, keep moving,” I barked, my heart pounding so hard and fast I tasted blood.

The door was ahead. I saw the forest, painted with the first golden rays of dawn’s light. The Historian staggered, landing on all fours in the dirt outside, and kept crawling. He left a trail of tears behind him.

I turned at the threshold, holding the torch aloft, Aela at the ready. The screams had gone silent. I couldn’t feel Rhylan in my mind—but neither was the bond shattered. He was alive.

Come on, come on, come on.

Something glittered, far back in that darkness. The torch shimmered across a blue eye, and then a constellation of black globules, the eyes emerging from Isandoral’s forehead as he peered around the corner.

Without thinking, I turned. I ran outside, grabbed the Historian by the shoulders and forced him upright, and took his hand before sprinting for the forest, the pavilion, anything that might serve as shelter.

He panted, sobbing breaths as Isandoral screamed. Birds took flight from the trees, and the earth seemed to tilt around me, everything spinning at the edges, my heart ready to burst from sheer terror.

There was a roar, a familiar roar. The thunder of pure rage and determination.

I shoved the Historian behind the pavilion, full of painful hope.

Black flames burst from the tower door. Isandoral’s scream was of agony, rage…and the dragon who emerged was a familiar one, his ebony scales coated in blood.

Rhylan sent another gout of flame into the tower, then grabbed the door he’d tossed aside, and slammed it into place. Wood splintered and creaked.

Myst, Erebos, if we ever needed you now is the time , I thought fervently, one hand on the Historian’s quaking shoulder.

Rhylan braced his shoulder against the door. Isandoral pounded it from the other side, screaming. I reached up and touched my ear, and my fingertips came away red.

Gods.

Rhylan and I locked eyes, desperate and terrified. The door would not hold.

The lake bubbled, boiling into mist. My Ascendant emerged, no longer small and sleek.

Myst stepped forth, towering twenty feet at the shoulder. Long, sleek whiskers floated from her sharp snout, her body long and slim, as graceful as water. Her antler-like horns were hung with silver bells.

She swam through the air, and the dark figure that detached from the shadows of the tower joined her. Erebos’s eyes flamed with madness, as dark as night.

Myst sniffed the air and hissed at the sight of Rhylan, and both Ascendants descended on the pavilion.

“Move aside, Serafina,” Myst said gently. “Honestly, I did tell you to be careful.”

I stared up at her wildly, and finally tugged the Historian away, sitting him down beneath a tree.

The Ascendants picked up stones that could crush a dragon, carrying them as weightlessly as air. Rhylan shuddered, and back away from the tower door, his shoulders slumped as he moved towards me.

I ran to him, as Myst dropped a boulder of a stone in front of the door, blocking the entrance and entrapping Isandoral within.

Gods, Rhylan . I buried my face in his shoulder.

He exhaled wearily, and I felt his pain, the ache of his burning throat. Gods, Sera. Let’s not do this ever again, thanks.

The Ascendants moved in concert, moving boulders, plucking trees from the ground, burying the royal doors and the Historians’ door behind masses of stone and wood. They flew to the peak, tearing down the dragon door, piling stone and wood across the open atrium.

Koressis Eyrie was a sealed tomb now.

Myst floated down to me, losing mass until she was nothing more than a graceful wisp of air.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” I asked wearily. “It wasn’t him anymore. I think he was…in agony.”

Myst looked back at the tower, eyes distant and disturbed. “Proof.”